


The Portrait

by jooblee



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV), Peaky Blinders RPF
Genre: Angst, Artists, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Good Father Tommy Shelby, How Do I Tag, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I'm Bad At Summaries, One Big Happy Family, Past Relationship(s), Reader-Insert, References to Drugs, Relationship(s), Sad Tommy Shelby, Smoking is Tommy's vice, Tags Are Hard, The Garrison Pub (Peaky Blinders), Tommy Shelby Needs a Hug, Tommy Shelby has no wife, Touch-Starved Tommy Shelby, Unreliable Narrator, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:47:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 18,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28531683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jooblee/pseuds/jooblee
Summary: Tommy Shelby is an independent man, removed from any overly-complicated relations. Yet, when he meets you, the painter he has commissioned for his portrait, something changes. Only just recovering from the loss of his wife he somehow begins to fall for you, a lonely female painter trying to make a living in Birmingham. He's the king and your his subject, but will your complex relationship somehow turn the tides?
Relationships: Arthur Shelby/Linda Shelby, Esme Shelby/John Shelby, Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Reader, Tommy Shelby/You
Comments: 82
Kudos: 183





	1. The First Session

**Author's Note:**

> So, basically, I was inspired by the many portraits you see of Tommy in his house from the beginning of season 3. I kinda wondered who painted them and why, and what kind of relationship this person would have with the King of Shelby's. This is what came of it. I hope you enjoy, and please leave some feedback!  
> Kudos and comments make my day :)

The faint sound of your pencil scratching the surface of the large canvas does little to ground you, slow your racing pulse. You can feel his icy stare on you as you sketch the outlines of his chiselled face onto the blank exterior. You are fully aware that this man is dangerous, infamous for his cold-blooded crimes and his growing hunger for power. Thomas fucking Shelby. Yet, as his gaze bores into you, a warm blush settles in your usually pale cheeks.

“You’re nervous,” he remarks matter-of-factly.

You don’t reply immediately, instead, focusing on getting the jut of his sharp cheekbones just right. Finally, when you’re pleased with the faint sketch of his unusually handsome face, you look up at him. You’re greeted by the frosty blue of his irises. His expression is stoic and distant, making him look even more like a king. A king amongst the clutter of your small flat.

“You’ve commissioned me to paint the most notorious man in Birmingham. Of course, I’m nervous,” you reply, lowering your gaze back to the canvas.

“I thought you’d be above such superstitious titles. It’s why I chose you,” he responds, still eyeing you like you’re one of his bloody racehorses.

Your wet your bottom lip as you turn away from your easel, pushing your pencil behind your ear. Two signs of anxiety, you realise embarrassedly. You rummage through your box of paints and brushes, picking out the materials you’ll need to capture Thomas Shelby’s presence. He is admittedly one of the most interesting faces you’ve ever had the opportunity of painting. Supplies in hand you turn back to the easel, realising with a jolt that the light has changed dramatically since he first entered through the rickety wooden door of your dwellings. It’s dark now, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced, and his hair seemingly darker than it was just a few hours ago.

“We’ve been at it for quite a while. When do you have to leave?” you ask, as you open the first pot of creamy paint.

The smell calms you slightly, reminding you that you’re in your own territory, doing the thing you do best.

“Oh, I have nowhere to be. Anyway, it doesn’t matter when I leave, people will definitely think you’re a whore now,” he says, and you see the faintest trace of a smile on his lips.

You flush indignantly, your anger replacing your initial uneasiness. Your eyes snap up to glare at him.

“I am not a whore, Mr Shelby. And most definitely not for you,” you snap, aggressively dipping your brush into the red paint, splashing colour all over your face.

“Tommy. Please,” he says, copiously smirking at you now.

You purse your lips, deciding not to dignify his jibe with an answer. The two of you lapse into an oddly comfortable silence. The sound of the soft brush stroking the rough canvas matches your level breathing. You realize after a while that your shoulder is aching from the repetitive movements of your arm. You let your gaze glide over to his relaxed form. He’s looking into the distance, his eyes glazed over as he seemingly moves in a world detached from the present reality. You feel comfortable enough to raise your arms, crack your shoulders, and yawn widely. It’s late now, so late it must be early. You tuck a lock of your flaming red hair behind your ear, dislodging the forgotten pencil. It clatters noisily to the wooden floorboards. Groaning inwardly, you bend over, groping clumsily for the slim wooden object. Your movements are stiff and unsuccessful. Yet, just as you’re about to catch the cursed pencil, Thomas’ hand snatches it from the floor. You straighten, opening your palm for him to place the pen into your hand, yet when your eyes meet you see that he has other plans.

“Ah,” he chides gently, withholding it from your grasp.

You’re too tired to fight him, too tired to play his odd games. You just want him to leave, so that you can curl into your bed and sleep. Your eyelids are heavy and you feel drowsy. It must be the effect of that bloody incense you burnt earlier on. It was a present from an acquaintance. Probably opium, you think blearily.

“Can I please have the fucking pencil back?” you try, knowing you’ll be unsuccessful.

You’re beyond pleasantries. This might be a Shelby, well _the_ Shelby, but he’s also the man refusing to give back what is most definitely yours. He eyes you and his expression softens ever so slightly at your worn-out eyes and loose hair. He hands you back the pencil, his warm hand brushing against your perpetually cool one.

“You should light the fire in here more often,” he remarks, looking down at your pale, slender fingers.

“I agree. It’s why I paint people like you. So that I can afford to do so,” you shoot back, running a hand through your already tousled hair.

You stand in awkward silence. His eyes still boring into you, as if he’s slowly stripping you of your façade, revealing the insecure, penniless, woman you really are. You stare back defiantly, your jaw clenching slightly. You dislike his aloofness, his certain self-confidence like he is the most important person you’ll ever have the pleasure of meeting. Alas, he probably is. You don’t know why he came here to be painted. He doesn’t strike you as a man who has time for _art_. In fact, he doesn’t even strike you as the kind of man who has time to be painted. He inhales sharply through his teeth, pulling you away from your musing, signalling that your session has indeed come to an abrupt end.

“I’ll be going then.”

You nod, eyeing him curiously as he heads towards the door. He slips into his heavy coat and adjusts his peaked cap, a cigarette already dangling from his chapped lips when he suddenly turns back to face you.

“Same place tomorrow?” he inquires, brow raised questioningly.

“Of course. But don’t worry about the time, people already think I’m your whore now,” you reply, smiling coolly.

He doesn’t acknowledge your quip with a reply. Instead, he leaves through the door he came many hours ago, leaving you tired yet alert, alone in your dimly-lit flat.

That night when you fall asleep, you dream of him.


	2. 'The Family Meeting'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter I'll be exploring the backstory of 'the artist'. I'm really enjoying writing this fanfic and I plan on uploading regularly. So, as usual, I hope you enjoy and I'd love to hear your feedback!  
> Kudos and comments make my day! :)

“Johnny! Johnny Dogs!” you yell, running wildly through the thick undergrowth.

You cut yourself on several branches, and something snags your hair, but you continue sprinting towards the moving vardo. You’re laughing breathlessly, your dark red skirt fluttering against your hot skin, warmed by the sizzling summer sun. Finally, the caravan comes to a halt, and with an outstretched hand, you reach it, pausing briefly to catch your breath.

“What on earth are you doing here?” you hear the familiar voice inquire, as Johnny Dogs jumps down from the raised platform, cap in hand.

“I wanted to ask you something,” you reply simply, still trying to even out your breathing.

He looks at you oddly, at your sleep-tousled hair, and your warm, red cheeks.

“Have you even had breakfast yet?” he asks, his ruddy face finally breaking into a grin.

You shake your head sheepishly, and gratefully accept his hand as he pulls you up into the wagon.

He sets about organising some bread with a lump of soft butter and homemade strawberry jam. He presses the chipped plate into your empty hands, as well as a lukewarm mug of peppermint tea. You smile thankfully, taking a bite of the soft, aromatic bread. He lets you eat in peace for a while, then he clears his throat and runs a hand through his short, black hair.

“So, why did you come here?” he asks curiously, “I was on my way to London on a job for Tommy before you came flapping around the corner.”

You swallow, setting down the now empty plate.

“I wanted to ask you something. Something concerning Tommy,” you explain, your voice going unusually quiet.

You clear your throat and straighten slightly, trying to gather your thoughts and repeat them in one concise query.

"Why am I painting Tommy?"

He sighs audibly and turns his head to look into the distance, his gaze focused on something you can’t see. You’ve rarely seen your cousin so lost for words.

“Listen, I need you to understand something. Tommy is a dangerous man, chai. Grace, Tommy’s late wife, commissioned a portrait of him. Well, you’d just settled down in Birmingham, and I reckoned you needed the money, so I asked Grace to appoint you,” he begins, his voice soft.

You open your mouth to reply, but he raises his hand.

“And you accepted,” he continues, pausing and then sighing heavily, “then Grace was murdered, and well- Well, Tommy wanted me to call it all off, but I explained that you needed the money,-“

“But, surely Thomas _Shelby_ wouldn’t care about that. He doesn’t know me. We were children when we last saw each other,” you interject.

Furthermore, wouldn’t he want to forget such a request? More often than not the people you painted never found any enjoyment in studying their face. So, what would he need such a portrait for? Maybe, he was more egotistical than even you had thought.

“Let me finish. He had the same inclination at first, but then I told him more about you. About how you’d been travelling through Europe and Britain, and how you’d finally decided to move closer to relations like me. I told him that you’d always been talented, even as a child, and-”

“So, you sold me like a fucking racehorse? Told him everything you know about me? For fuck’s sake, Johnny! I don’t want Thomas fucking Shelby to know anything about me! I enjoy privacy. I don’t need Birmingham’s mafia to be acquainted with me,” you burst out, your voice shaking as all of your bottled emotions threaten to come to the surface.

He looks taken aback, then his expression settles into a scowl, one of grim confidence.

“You need the money, and he needs the company. I know he’s a dangerous man, which is why your merely painting him. Thomas Shelby is my friend, and I would trust him with my life. If anything your safer, now that the Shelbys know you're related to me,” he replies hotly.

“You make me sound like a whore!” you exclaim, uncomfortably reminded of Tommy’s little quip yesterday.

“I am your family! I merely wish to protect you!” Johnny shouts abruptly.

You jump, sloshing cold tea all over yourself. Johnny curses, it sounds more like the hiss of a snake and immediately hands you a flowered dishtowel. You accept it gratefully.

“I don’t need your protection,” you mutter, your voice like that of a petulant child.

In the back of your mind, you know that you’re being unfair to him. Johnny is the reason you’re here in Birmingham, finally planting your feet on even ground, building yourself a life.

“I thought it would be better if you met the ‘king’ of Birmingham on your own terms, in your own territory, a place of dignity and respect so that he knows where he stands with you,” he concludes, voice calmer now, his hand reaching out to squeeze your shoulder gently.

You sigh heavily, then nod. It makes sense and he’s right, you need the money.

“Then I’ll bloody paint him.”

* * *

You say your farewells to Johnny, hugging him tightly as you leave the vardo. You know you won’t be seeing him for a few weeks. His job in London sounds precarious and dangerous, but you decide not to press him any further. He hands you a fresh loaf of bread as you leave and presses a few banknotes into your hand. You shake your head furiously, wordlessly trying to hand them back.

“Take it, just until Tommy’s payment comes, eh?” he says, his smile slightly strained.

“I can make do, Johnny!” you exclaim, blushing deeply.

“You’re getting thinner and your hair has lost its flame,” he retaliates, “take it for me, will you? For my peace of mind.”

You exhale sharply then nod curtly, tucking the folded notes into the neckline of your dress.

“You’ll get it back in full when you come back from London, though,” you add quickly, as you step from the caravan, into the soft grass.

He smiles fondly, then nods.

“Deal.”

You turn away from your last remaining family member and duck back into the darkness of the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "chai" = Romani term for ‘girl’ or ‘young woman’


	3. A Session of Many Words

There’s a knock at the door, and instinctively your eyes look over to the window. It’s still light outside. He’s early.

“It’s open,” you call, trying to keep your voice steady, but already you feel your pulse racing and a blush, only he can provoke, rising to your cheeks.

There’s a creak behind you and then the soft thud of the door shutting. He’s standing behind you. You can feel his menacing presence at your back. You turn around slowly, palette and brush already in hand.

“Sit. I’ll carry on where I left off yesterday,” you say simply.

He stares at you a little while longer than necessary, then pushing his coat behind him and chucking his cap on to the kitchen table, he sits down in one swift movement. You swallow, eyeing his unmoving form. Even in his perfect stillness, every part of him seems to move. Every sharp angle and forceful curve of his face and body flow into each other seamlessly. His energy seems to ripple throughout the entire room, pulling you closer, into his ominous ambience. You feel helpless, nothing you do can keep you from succumbing to his magic. His dark magic.

He clears his throat and leans back further. For a moment you’re scared the old, wooden chair will topple, but then you remember who is sitting before you and you watch entranced as he tips backwards and grabs the rum bottle you opened together yesterday.

“It’s more fun,” he explains, “when everything I see is just a little bit hazy.”

You pull yourself out of your reverie and begin to paint.

“Sounds like alcoholism,” you point out dryly.

He laughs humourlessly, nodding in agreement as he throws the cork to the side and drinks straight from the bottle.

“That’s because it is. It’s fucking alcoholism,” he agrees, hissing slightly as he swallows a mouthful.

It’s a rum you got in Portugal. The vendor warned you that it was a little stronger than English rum. Definitely stronger than Solomon’s. You smile dolefully, trying to ignore the way his eyes close as he brings the bottle to his lips once more. Only then does his face relax and show you the hint of a smile that he must once have shown gladly.

“But don’t be fooled. We’re all addicts. We're just addicted to different kinds of drugs,” he muses, loud enough for you to hear him.

You put down your brush and reach your hand out to take the bottle. This is your fifth session, yet already that motion seems to have been ingrained in your muscle memory. He passes it to you immediately, with gentleman-like politeness. Your hands brush briefly.

“Still cold,” he remarks.

“Still poor,” you retaliate sharply, giving him a sardonic smile.

He tuts, eyeing the bottle in your hand.

“Still fucking poor,” he repeats softly.

“But don’t worry about that, Shelby-“

“For fuck’s sake, call me Tommy, please,” he implores half-heartedly, his eyes wandering to the window.

You can’t help but grin. He’s always so easy to rile up. Your smile quickly turns into a blush. He catches the change in your expression and a wicked glint enters his blue irises.

“Thinking dirty thoughts, eh?”

You scoff and return your concentration to the portrait. The _fucking_ portrait.

“Nothing concerning you, Tommy,” you reply, then curse yourself for using his desired name.

He beams broadly, flashing his pearly teeth. You huff loudly, taking another swig of rum. Then, you give the bottle back to him and already you can feel yourself unwinding, becoming attuned to his presence. So much so that you can no longer imagine your small dwellings without him in them, after just a few hours of painting. He seems to belong in that bloody kitchen chair, simply gazing out of the thin-glassed window.

“Johnny says hello,” you remark after a long silence, in which his face has become cold and hard once more.

He nods curtly, then clicks his teeth and shakes his head.

“I don’t want to talk about Johnny, though. Not when I’d much rather talk about you,” he replies.

Your heart skips a beat, and you watch him intently as he brings a cigarette to his lips, his gaze heavy on you. You don't know how to reply, what to say that might interest him. A sense of resentment towards him washes over you. He shouldn't put you in such awkward situations. 

“We would be finished faster if you just stopped fucking talking,” you murmur finally, returning to the matter at hand.

He ignores you and continues: “See, I always wondered what happened to you. Always bloody wondered.”

“I travelled. Like Johnny told you,” you reply plainly.

“You were a wild one as a kid. Running about with fucking flowers in your hair and torn clothes,” he adds, shaking his head almost fondly.

“We were all wild, Thomas. Anyway,” you sigh, “I wasn’t sad back then.”

“Sad?” he asks, pearly smoke seemingly _flowing_ from his mouth as he raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“Sad,” you confirm, swallowing the lump of unshed tears that threatens to constrict your breath.

He nods curtly and moves his focus back to the window. Neither of you speaks and slowly you return to his face, the one you have so meticulously tried to portray on a crisp white canvas. You bite your lip in concentration as you try and get the curve of his lips just right. Not smiling, but not frowning either. He inhales heavily, and your eyes snap back up to him.

“I don’t even fucking know, what I’m going to do with that,” he says, his voice layered with the undertone of an accusation.

He gestures vaguely at the canvas.

“Neither do I,” you admit, tucking a few strands of your dark hair behind your ear to keep them from getting wet with paint.

“ _She_ wanted it. Not me,” he adds, somewhat reproachfully.

You simply nod. Nothing you say will be something he hasn’t heard before. He grabs the bottle again and takes another forceful mouthful. For the briefest of moments, you see the flash of tears in his eyes, however before you can comment he turns away slightly, bringing his expensive sleeve to his grief-torn face.

“I- I don’t know what to say,” you confess.

He swallows and bites his lip thoughtfully, then he looks at you a hostility in his eyes, that you haven’t seen before.

“No one seems to know what to fucking say,” he says quietly, then his voice raises, “Well, neither do _fucking_ I!”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. He looks as though he’s about to jump from his seat, shoulders tensed and jaw clenched. The only sound filling the dimly-lit room is your rapid breathing. Then he exhales, his anger seemingly dissipating. He rubs a hand over his face, and his icy eyes seem to thaw a little as he looks at you.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t aimed at you. It wasn’t-“ he falters, and simply lets his stare drop to the threadbare rug placed under the feet of his chair, his hands moving to hold his heavy head.

And indeed, the saying "heavy hangs the head that wears the crown" has never seemed more fitting.

“It’s alright,” you assure him.

And it is. It’s alright.

By the time you’re done, the rum bottle is empty and the portrait is almost done. You won’t need another session with him. Your chest tightens at the thought. He slowly gets up from his seat and begins to collect his belongings. This time he doesn’t put his cap on, he leaves it in his tight-knuckled grip and runs his other hand through his dark hair. It’s an uncharacteristically vulnerable movement and your eyes drink it up curiously. You hold the door open for him, leaning against the sharp edge, your hand gripping the bronze doorknob almost painfully hard.

“That’s it then,” he says and it sounds almost like a question.

“I- I guess,” you reply, your voice betraying your hesitation.

He nods thoughtfully, then pulls his cap over his head and brings yet another cigarette to his waiting lips. That is his signature sign-off, his grand exit. The. Fucking. Finale. Once again you resent his cold, self-assured habits. The way he makes it so very clear that he doesn't _need_ you. He doesn't need anybody.

Until he does. Just as he’s about to leave through the door without a proper goodbye, he turns to you.

“Meet me tomorrow, by the cut,” he says, leaving no room for discussion.

You stare at him in surprise, your eyes widening slightly. His breathing is the only thing that fills your ears, as he waits for your reply. Then you give a sharp nod, the tension that was constricting your voice leaving your body in one short exhale. So, he leaves. Without another word, without any further instruction. But he knows he doesn’t need to say anymore. You’ll be there. You will most definitely be there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really inspired whilst writing this chapter. (I guess I just really like writing scenes with Tommy in them) XD  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed and as usual if you have any feedback feel free to leave a comment. (It really does help me with my writing.)  
> Hope you're all holding up well! Xx


	4. The Cut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is a scene I've had in mind for a while now. I know it's short, and not really plot-driven, but I think it shows the volatile relationship the two of them have ... Anyway XD  
> As usual, I hope you enjoy it!  
> Hope you're all well and staying safe! Xx

Sunlight filters through your thin curtains, as you lie awake. It’s been light for what feels like hours, and you're dimly aware of having watched the sun’s ascent. You can feel that it’s going to be a warm day. A day for “cotton dresses and kissing boys with the taste of strawberries on your tongue”. That’s what your mother used to say when you were sitting together under the midsummer’s sun. You sigh and close your eyes again, trying to block out the onslaught of images. Your mother holding you, her smile, her laugh, her tears, the day she-. You sit bolt upright, shaking your head. Not now. You muster all of your strength and pull yourself out of bed, walking barefoot to the gold-framed, cracked mirror you’ve propped up against the wall. Your fingers run through your unruly, tangled hair, as you stare at yourself. Johnny’s right, you’ve become thinner and your eyes are oddly hollow. Finally, your gaze becomes too much and you turn away. He can’t see you like this. He can’t see you off guard and vulnerable. Thomas Shelby doesn’t have time for the _weak_.

When you finally leave your simple abode, you’ve decided on a creamy white, cotton dress, with a silky red hairband tied around your dark curls and your lips are the colour of strawberries.

You were right. It’s a hot summer’s day, and the sun heats your skin as you make your way towards the cut. You realise, as you’re walking along the busy streets of Birmingham, that you recognize no-one. You feel like a foreigner in a sea of unfamiliar faces. You’re glad when you finally reach the murky waters of the Cut. Behind you, the sound of clashing metals, and roaring fires dim slightly. Your gaze wanders and you realise that you’re close to Charlie Strong’s scrapyard. Even you remember Charlie.

The sound of footsteps behind you brings you to attention. It’s him. Your hands clench slightly and your heartbeat accelerates.

“Been waiting long?” he asks, his voice like a familiar melody to your ears.

“Only just arrived,” you reply, smiling slightly as you turn to face him.

He doesn’t smile back. His expression is one of apathy, of complete and utter nonchalance. Colour rises to your cheeks, and suddenly you feel oddly embarrassed. Embarrassed by the make-up on your face and the uncomfortable heels on your feet. You feel… insufficient.

“You look beautiful,” he says, with the same indifference in his voice.

You tilt your chin up, still unable to swallow the lump of shame in your throat. How is it that he provokes such strong emotions in you? Why does he hold so much power over you?

“I try my best,” you say flatly.

He takes a step towards you, his lips close to your ear as he murmurs:

“I think I prefer it when you don’t try.”

Your heart tightens, like a vice. Get a grip! For fuck’s sake. You lean forwards, a sarcastic smile on your red lips.

“I never said I try for you,” you whisper into his ear.

A wide grin splits his face, and finally, he looks pleased to see you.

“There’s my girl,” he exclaims, then turns away and begins to walk along the river.

That’s your cue to follow and, pouting slightly, you do. His gait is quick, but you follow easily. You weren’t born to pace slowly. You were born to run and after what seems like an age of silence, in which the sound of your fleeting steps was the only accompaniment, he stops.

“We’re here.”

You raise your eyebrows questioningly and look around you. You’re further away from the dealings of the town, in a secluded spot, under a bridge. The water of the river looks cleaner here, almost alive. You imagine fish with colourful scales dancing underneath the glassy surface of the water. There's life here, you think, and it makes your heart dance.

“We’re here,” you repeat softly, still taking in your surroundings, gaze preoccupied with the beauty of this place.

“Eh, look at me,” he says softly.

You’re surprised by the tenderness in his voice and you turn back to him. His eyes are trained on you, drinking in your rosy, parted lips, and your bright eyes. His gaze is that of a predator, waiting for the perfect moment to take its prey.

“Is this the moment in which you kill me?” you ask jokingly.

He shakes his head, removing his cap, and runs a hand through his hair.

“Nope,” he murmurs, his lips parting, “this is the moment in which we kiss.”

He’s right. It is.

“Quickly then, before it passes,” you say simply.

Then his warm, calloused hand is cupping your cheek and his perfect mouth is on yours. You kiss him back, your hands entwining around his neck. It’s soft, tender, and it lasts more than a moment. This is exactly what you thought it would feel like, and you’re surprised that some part of you was openly longing for this.

Finally, he pulls away, breathing heavily.

“Alright,” he says, lightly running his thumb over your bottom lip, “okay.”

“Okay?” you ask.

“Yeah, okay,” he concludes, returning his lips to yours.


	5. Different To Them All

The sun has set by now, casting the world around you in a soft tangerine glow. The sun is still warm on your cheeks, and your lips hurt from smiling, talking and _kissing_ so much. The two of you are seated next to the river, your backs propped up against a cool brick wall. His arm is wrapped around your shoulder, and you lean into him gratefully.

“Do you remember that summer, when we were in Scotland?” you ask quietly, looking at the sparkling surface of the Cut.

You feel him move against you, and you look up at him.

“Of course. I’m surprised you do though,” he replies, looking down at you, his eyes so much gentler than usual.

The ice that usually meets your gaze, has thawed into a soft blue. The colour of the sky on a cloudless day.

“I’m not likely to forget the time you jumped butt-naked into the ocean,” you joke.

He laughs deeply, his chest rippling against your cheek. You breathe him in, the scent of cigarettes, whisky, mixed with _him_.

“No. No, I guess that’s an image you’re not likely to forget,” he murmurs.

And this is it. This is _it_. At this moment, he’s untouched by the shadows and nightmares you see when you paint him. The faint lines of regret and sorrow carved into his delicate features. They seem to soften, the sun melting them away. You realise this is the Tommy who never saw the horrors of war. The Thomas Shelby, Johnny always spoke about.

He pulls a cigarette from the pack in his coat pocket and brings it to his slightly swollen lips. They’re redder than they were before you came here and they taste of strawberries. He pulls at the cigarette, blowing iridescent smoke into the clear air. You watch him, transfixed. Then, you take the cigarette from his fingers and bring it to your mouth. This time he watches you and you can’t describe the look in his eyes.

“You’re different. You’re different to them all,” he says softly, turning his eyes away, back to the river.

“Different to who?” you ask, your fingers brushing against the lapel of his expensive coat.

He smiles widely, and something inside of you breaks.

“To them _all_ ,” he whispers, then he takes the cigarette from you once more, brushing it against his lips.

“Let’s go for a drink,” he says suddenly, as you reach Charlie’s yard once more.

You’re taken aback, surprised by his eagerness for your company. Then again, he’s never seemed like the man afraid to ask for what he wants. You pause, then nod. Why not? You like it when he turns a little fuzzy around the edges, softer, off guard.

“Okay then,” you reply simply, and let him steer you towards the tavern.

The doors to the Garrison swing open and you step into the warmly lit pub. The interior is oddly simple, yet expensive at the same time. It’s warm and the familiar scent of polished wood mixed with liquor fill your senses.

“What do you want to drink?” Tommy asks softly, his hand on the small of your back.

“I’ll have what you’re having,” you reply, still taking in your surroundings.

He pauses for just a moment, his eyes on you, then heads towards the bar. The door next to you swings open and out storms a wiry man with a bowtie around his neck. _Arthur_. Johnny’s told you many stories about Arthur. You step to the side, to stop him from throwing you off balance.

“Tommy!” he bellows, a wide smile splitting his gaunt face.

“Hello, Brother,” Tommy replies, his rough, yet tranquil voice an odd contrast to the deep, gravelly rumble of Arthur's.

Tommy doesn’t turn around to face his brother, instead, he pours two tumblers of whiskey.

Presumably noticing the two glasses, Arthur turns to face you. A smirk settles on his face, and he returns his gaze to Tommy’s back.

“Who the fuck is the bird, Tommy?” Arthur inquires.

“My painter. Leave her alone,” Tommy says, still not turning to face you.

“Your painter? Or your whore?” Arthur asks, eyebrows raised.

Tommy whirls around, whiskey spilling onto the counter. He glares at Arthur, and Arthur backs down immediately. Stepping away from you, hands in the air.

“Fuck off, Arthur,” Tommy says softly, yet the authority in his voice is undeniable.

“I- I’m sorry. So sorry,” he says, bowing his head to you in a gesture of humility.

“Go home to _Linda_. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Tommy adds, stepping from behind the counter.

Arthur nods quickly, “yes, of course. I’ll leave you and your- your painter,” then, he all but flees the pub. Tommy looks apologetic as he hands you your drink. You smile gratefully, bringing your glass to clink against his.

“To new relations,” you say.

“To new relations,” he repeats.

Then, you bring the glass to your lips. The amber liquid burns your throat. It tastes like him. You drink in amicable silence. There are no words that can describe the blossoming heat in your chest.

Finally, you reach your flat. Tommy holds onto your arm, unwilling to let you go. You turn to face him.

“This is me,” you say, pointing to the faded blue door.

“Listen,” he begins.

You look at him expectantly, placing your hand on his. His grip around your bicep tightens imperceptibly. He doesn’t elaborate, and for once he seems unable to meet your gaze. Finally, after standing in silence for what seems like an age, he looks up, eyes tunnelling into yours.

“The portrait-“ he begins once more.

“You can come upstairs. It’s finished, I finished it last night,” you say, smiling warmly.

He shakes his head.

“No.”

“Why?” you ask rejection filtering into your voice.

“Because- because, if I come upstairs with you now, I won’t be able to restrain myself,” he says quietly.

Understanding dawns on you, and a blush warms your cheeks.

“Come upstairs,” you repeat softly.

He doesn’t reply, instead, he lets go of your arm and shakes his head once more.

“But, Tom-“ you say, unable to comprehend his sudden denial.

He looks at you and smiles. It’s small, yet genuine, and his eyes betray the flame you’ve kindled in his chest.

“I need to go home tonight. My son is waiting for me,” he explains.

Your gaze lowers to the gravel beneath your feet. He tilts your chin up gently so that you’re looking at him.

“Come visit me. Bring me the portrait,” he whispers, “I want to see you again.”

You laugh breathlessly and shake your head.

“I don’t even know where you live!” you exclaim

“I’ll send a car,” he retaliates, still smiling.

“I- I don’t know,” you say, unsure why you’re wavering.

“Yes, you do,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear.

And he’s right. You do.

“Okay,” you whisper, finally giving in.

He grins, and kisses you softly, the taste of whiskey fresh on his tongue. When he pulls away, you're breathless once more. Then he turns around and leaves. You watch him fade into the shadows of the night. Finally, you’re standing alone on the street, your heart beating a violent melody against your sternum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Leave feedback in the comments.  
> Hope you're all well and staying safe!  
> Xx


	6. Arrow House

The silk scarf you’ve wrapped around the delicate canvas slips to and fro as you bustle through Watery Lane. The street is crowded, and you nearly fall to the ground as an especially large group of children rush past you. Today is market day, the day when Birmingham seems to come to life. Your eyes gloss over the new frame you’ve had fitted for the portrait once more. The vendor was right, a gold frame really was the best choice. An absent-minded smile on your lips, you continue your journey home. Only when the sound of an especially aggressive car horn shrieks through the street, are you pulled out of your reverie.

“Oi! The bird with the red hair!” a decidedly male voice yells.

You turn around to face the commotion and yelp in fright. A sleek, black automobile is trailing close behind you, a man hanging out of the window, waving his arm wildly to catch your attention. You stop walking and the car stops driving.

“Are you gonna get fuckin’ in or not? Cos, I’d really like to get fuckin’ going!” the man calls impatiently.

He’s wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and his shirt and waistcoat are decorated with many gold chains. In his hand, he’s holding a heavy cane, with which he is _definitely_ pointing at you. You swallow nervously. Is this the car Tommy ordered for you? The man stops waving and results to just staring at you, pointing at the pocket watch in his hand. You stumble towards the car, canvas pinned tightly under your elbow.

“Finally,” he exclaims, extending a hand towards you and pulling you into the car next to him.

Only when you’re sitting this close to him do you recognize the man. His warm, yet treacherous eyes and the scruffy, reddish beard. This is Alfie _fucking_ Solomons.

“Why-“ you begin, falling back into your seat as the car lurches forward.

“See, Tommy, my best fucking mate, asked _me_ to pick _you_ up. Seems like we’re both headed to the King’s parlour, eh?” he says, ignoring your attempt at a question.

He tuts and smiles widely, then turns back to look at you. His demeanour isn’t directly threatening, yet the bright gleam in his eyes give you the impression that he could lose his head at any given moment.

“I couldn’t fucking refuse, could I? See, we both have business with Tommy-Boy,” he continues, waving his hand about as if to underline his point.

What point? You can’t tell.

“How did you know how to-“

Again he doesn’t let you finish.

“We was waiting for you. In front of the fucking shambles you call a house. Wasn’t fucking there was she, Ollie?”

He cranes his head forward to face the driver. A young, Jewish man. The man nods, and Alfie leans back looking pleased with himself.

“Anyways, Tommy told me you had flaming red hair, so we’s just fucking decided to search all of Birmingham for you,” he concludes.

“Naturally,” you murmur.

“Finally, someone who fucking understands,” Alfie exclaims, beaming at you.

You sink further into the cushioned seat. This is going to be a tiresome journey.

Finally, after a long gruelling car ride you reach Arrow House. Alfie helps you out of the car and hands you the carefully wrapped portrait. Then, together with “Ollie” the driver, you reach the grand entrance. You catch your breath. This is the mansion of Tommy. A palace, ten times the size of your meagre flat. Suddenly, the image of him reclining in your wooden kitchen chair seems incompatible with the man who lives here.

“Let go of her arm, Alfie,” Tommy’s familiar voice calls out.

He’s standing in the parlour. In a simple, yet expensive shirt and dress trousers. His gun holster is tied firmly around his torso, and the collar of his shirt is fastened with a gleaming golden pearl. You swallow, yet your throat remains dry. Alfie lets go and all but ignores you as he heads straight for the room to your left. Presumably, Tommy’s office. The room where _it_ happens.

“Bye, love. We won’t be seeing each other. I’m afraid Tommy doesn’t want _me_ to stay the night,” Alfie calls over his shoulder.

Tommy’s knuckles tighten imperceptibly and his jaw clenches in that familiar gesture of suppressed irritation. You don't reply to Alfie's sharp jibe. Instead, you give Tommy your full attention, raising your eyebrow expectantly.

“I’ll catch up with you as soon as possible. Why don’t you head out to the stables? Take a look at the horses, eh?” he suggests softly, moving towards you.

Your chest tightens slightly, yet you lean into the hand cupping your cheek.

“I’m not some dog for you to pacify,” you whisper, kissing him before he can retaliate.

This time you’re the one who pulls away, leaving him breathless. You give him a breezy smile and brush past him, heading up the stairs.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, watching you sashay up the steps, hips swaying from side to side.

“I’ll give myself a tour of the house. You can find me when you’re done, just like Alfie had to,” you say.

He doesn’t reply. Instead, you stare at each other, then he turns abruptly and heads into his office. Closing the door with a soft click. Whatever happens behind those doors is something not meant for your eyes and ears. The Tommy behind that door is someone you have yet to meet. You sigh and finish climbing the stairs.

The halls are lavishly furnished, and the carpet feels luxurious under your bare feet. Yet, the interior of the house doesn’t excite you. It doesn’t _mean_ anything. Your restless feet lead you back outside, and you end up at the stables. Tommy’s reputation for being a horse’s man turns out to be true. The creature you find edgily pacing its box is one of magnitude. Its glossy cream-coloured coat seems to glide under your hand as you stroke its neck. Its soulful eyes pull you in and root you to the spot. The horse neighs agitatedly and your heart wrenches.

“You want to run, don’t you?” you ask softly, bringing your nose to rest against its soft muzzle.

You close your eyes and breath in its distinct smell, mixed with fresh straw. You don’t know how long you stand there, mesmerised by the giant creature. Yet, hours seem to have passed when you hear nearing footsteps.

“Dangerous. The name is Dangerous,” he says, stepping towards you.

You nod and disentangle yourself from the horse’s mane. You turn to face Tommy, and surprisingly find him with a young boy in his arms.

“And this is Charlie,” he says, smiling warmly at the child, before returning his gaze to you.

“Hello, Charlie,” you say softly, holding out your hand to the toddler.

He gurgles happily and clasps your finger tightly. The resemblance between the two of them is undeniable, yet their eyes are different. Charlie’s are softer, unfamiliar. They must be Grace’s, you realise. Instinctively you hold your arms out to hold the child. Tommy gives him to you, gently placing him into your waiting arms. You cradle Charlie, softly cooing all the while. Tommy doesn’t speak. He simply watches you.

“He’s so… happy,” you whisper unexpectedly.

“Takes after his mum,” Tommy replies simply.

You nod, then look at him. His eyes are fixated on Charlie, watching the boy as he pulls at your hair. Finally, his eyes meet yours, his expression, however, is unreadable.

“Let’s go back inside. I have something to ask you,” he says abruptly, gently wrapping his arm around your waist, as not to jostle Charlie, and guides the two of you back towards Arrow House.

“Alfie left?” you ask.

“Yeah. Now, we can finally take a look at that _fucking_ portrait,” he replies, but before you can reply indignantly, he turns to face you, a wide, toothy grin on his lips.

You decide not to retaliate. Not, when he’s looking at you like _that_. You smile back, and lean into him, breathing in his familiar scent. His torso radiates heat, warming your rosy cheeks. This man is the sun. This man is your _fucking_ sun, and he doesn’t realise it. How could he, when even you don’t understand the power his words and touch have over you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! If you have any feedback leave it in the comments :)  
> Kudos and comments make my day!  
> Hope you're all well and staying safe. Xx


	7. The Reveal

You hurry back into the front room, slightly out of breath, clutching the delicate canvas with shaking hands. An excited smile graces your lips, the grin of a child bursting with pride at some trivial achievement. But even you adore what you’ve created, the essence of Thomas Shelby almost perfectly captured in a single portrait. The _fucking_ portrait.

“Sit down,” he says, gesturing for you to take a seat in one of the armchairs next to the fireplace.

You hear Charlie’s distant babbling as one of the maids brings him upstairs to tuck him in. You sit down in the soft leather chair, your hand absent-mindedly running over its smooth exterior. Tommy has his back turned to you, pouring two tumblers of whiskey. You’ve become accustomed to the burning aftertaste of his liquor and the flame it ignites in your chest. Your chest tightens with apprehension and you realise that for the first time you’re nervous about what he will think. Will he be able to recognize himself in the delicate brushstrokes you brought to the painting?

“So, what do you want to ask me,” you inquire, gratefully accepting the glass he hands you, carefully setting down the portrait next to you.

He takes the seat opposite you and shakes his head good-naturedly.

“Always so fucking impatient,” he says, clicking his tongue as he eyes you, almost, _hungrily_.

“Well, I want to give you what is long overdue. Of course, I’m bloody impatient,” you exclaim, eyes bright with excitement.

The look he gives you is one of attentiveness and curiosity. Brief silence envelopes you, then a lazy grin splits his face.

“Well, give it to me then. Let me see the _fucking_ portrait,” he replies, leaning forwards so that his elbows are resting on his expensively clad knees.

You unwrap the picture, carefully removing the silk scarf. It falls to the floor in one swift motion, pooling like water at your feet. Your hands tremble as you hand it over to him. You don’t know where to look as he takes it, where to put your hands. You decide on taking your glass and downing your whiskey in one smooth gulp. Yet, in the corner of your eye, you watch him take in the portrait. His expression has turned oddly aloof.

“It’s good, it’s fucking good,” he murmurs.

Your heart beats rapidly, and your hands continuously clench and unclench. Then, he shakes his head and leans back. 

“But it’s not me. I’m not that- I’m not that warm. I’m not that _fucking_ nice,” he adds, eyes scrutinizing every curve and line of his mirrored face.

He catches your gaze, disappointment reflected in his irises. 

"Not even you, the woman who's been scrutinizing me for hours on end, fucking know me. Not even you could show me who I really am," he says softly, voice laced with resentment.

“I painted what I saw, Thomas,” you reply, coolness seeping into your words.

He will never know who you saw in your dimly lit flat. He doesn’t realise, how understatedly kind and honest that man was. But maybe he’s right, that the Tommy you painted in your dingy kitchen is incompatible with the man who lives in Arrow House, sitting opposite you.

“Then you see something that isn’t fucking there,” he snaps and his sudden hostility surprises you.

You set your glass down, eyeing him wearily and disappointed tears sting your eyes, as you try and swallow your wounded pride. He sighs wearily, running his hands over his face in that familiar exasperated way. Your anger dissipates, leaving only that familiar numbness you've become so accustomed to.

“You wanted to ask me something,” you prompt, trying to get away from the portrait and the distance it has so suddenly triggered.

He stands up abruptly, swallowing his whiskey in one elegant movement, hissing slightly as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he turns away from you, to face the crackling fire. His hand reaches out to grip the mantlepiece, as he stares into the flaming embers.

“Do you know how Grace died?” he asks quietly.

You don’t reply, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the intimidating presence he exudes. You’re unprepared for such a line of questioning. He faces you expectantly, then when you still don’t reply, he shakes his head tutting.

“Fucking thought so,” he mutters coldly.

“I don’t understand-“

You’re unable to break away from his intent gaze.

“She took a bullet that was meant for me,” he says quietly, leaning forward so that his face is close to yours.

You can feel the heat radiating off of him, in scorching, hostile waves.

“I didn’t know,” you mutter, looking down at the last dredges of amber liquid in your glass.

“Neither did she. That’s the _fucking_ point. Nobody ever knows,” he says, his eyes boring into you.

You wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he puts his glass onto the mantelpiece with a noisy clunk. Then he pushes away from the fireplace and heads towards the door. He leaves you there, alone. Alone in the front room of his fucking mansion, an empty glass of whiskey your hand. He leaves without another word because in his mind he has nothing more to say. Arthur was right, maybe Tommy has always only ever seen you as his whore. His whore, selling her company, her time, her _heart_. And you realise, that he never even paid you. Unless your afternoon at the Cut was his idea of a reward, and a fucking visit to his ridiculously large mansion. Payment nothing more. The kisses and the touches, merely coins and banknotes he paid you with in his head.

You stand up and take the bottle of whiskey. All of this because of a _fucking_ portrait. He can keep his money. You’re burning that canvas tonight.

You sit in silence for a few more minutes, contemplating his words. Then with decided determination, you take the box of matches he left in his coat pocket and head out of the front door, the portrait pinned under your arm. Frustrated tears prick your eyes as you rush down the front steps, trying to escape _him_ , his voice, his words, his smell. In the distance you can hear faint voices, Tommy cooing to Charlie. Your feet hit the gravel, as you stride down the seemingly infinite path.

“Wait, hold him-“ you hear him say hastily, then his footsteps rushing down the stairs.

“Oi, where are you fucking going?” he yells behind you, but he makes no attempt to follow you.

His calls grow fainter as you distance yourself from Arrow House. Wild anger and heartbreak fill your being, constricting your breath. He should have known not to fuck you over. Then again, maybe, _you_ should have fucking known. Thomas Shelby doesn’t love. The war took that part from him, and it doesn’t matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, he never loved you.

God, you barely even know the man. He made that fucking clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Leave your feedback in the comments  
> Kudos and comments make my day.  
> Hope y'all are well and staying safe!  
> Xx


	8. The Matchbox

Sweat trickles down your brow as the warm summer heat radiates through the obnoxiously large, French window. Your neck aches from facing upwards all day, and your arm hurts from the tedious repetitive strokes of your brush. With a final flick of your hand, you complete what seems like the hundredth fuking flower. If you have to paint one more bloody daisy, you may actually scream.

“Everything okay, love?” your commissioner asks, her voice sweet like sticky honey.

“Yes, thank you,” you reply, climbing from the wooden ladder.

God, even her bloody ladder is repulsively extravagant. The middle-aged woman, with painted red lips eyes your work. Then, gives you a wide, patronising smile.

“It looks lovely. Matthew was right to recommend you,” she simpers.

The straw blonde curls piled on the top of her head, teeter precariously as she teeters towards you.

“Matthew?” you ask, wiping your brow.

“Matthew!” she exclaims, “my uncle. You painted his portrait for his office in the school.”

You nod vaguely, dimly remembering a round-faced, ruddy old man.

“Are you done then? Is it finished?” she asks, returning to the matter at hand.

You eye the kitschy display of flowers, now covering the entire pale pink wall. You try hard not to look too repulsed and nod curtly.

“Perfect! Tilly will be so pleased,” she gushes.

You start packing up your utensils, glad when she finally leaves the room to fetch your payment. After a while of blissful silence, she returns and hands you a measly number of coins. You take them, enraged by the look she gives you. One of pride, as though she’s done you a favour. You nearly expect her to say “don’t spend it all at once” with that infuriating, bright smile.

Finally, you leave the grandiose townhouse and step out onto the sunny street. You begin your journey back home, feet heavy and eyes drooping. You’re parched. She didn’t offer you a drink once. The sun feels like a torch, burning your skin with its flame, and your mind is empty as you walk down the populated streets. You can’t even muster up the energy to think of _him_.

When you return to your flat, the sun is on its descent, and the moon is already hazily visible in the pale blue sky. You sit down at the table, hurling your bag of materials onto your bed. One of the paint cans topples from the mattress and falls to the floor. The lid pops open and you watch mesmerized as deep red paint pools on your cold wooden floorboards. Tears prick your eyes as you view the display. You sit there in silence, so long, that the paint slowly dries. Like dry blood, you think. It’s dark now, the sky like black cloth, enveloping you in its silence.

A dull knock pulls you out of your thoughts, and with aching eyes, you turn to route the sudden disturbance. With feet like lead, you trudge to the door and turn the brass knob. Your eyes take a while to focus and then your breath hitches. It’s him. It’s fucking _him_.

“Good evening,” he says, as though that is explanation enough.

You try to even out your erratic breathing, your heart beating faster than it has in a long while. For the first time in weeks, heat rushes to your cheeks, warming your pale face,

“Fuck off, Tommy,” you say hoarsely,

He ignores your request, eyeing you with the precision of a surgeon.

“You’ve lost weight,” he remarks.

You scoff, turn away from him and lean against the door, thereby inviting him into the flat.

“Still fucking poor,” you hiss.

He looks at you for longer than necessary, then sits down at the table, and somehow, you’re able to bring yourself to sit opposite him. He shrugs out of his coat, and lights a cigarette. You cross your arms and eye him coldly.

“I need to tell you something,” he begins, hand reaching out to touch yours.

You pull away, smiling icily, and lean back into your chair.

“I’m not fucking stopping you,” you reply quietly, voice laced with venom.

He clears his throat and takes off his cap, running a hand through his hair. Your heart tugs at the exposed gesture then stills. He hands you a cigarette, which you accept gratefully, and in a movement ingrained in your muscle-memory, you lean forward to let him light it for you.

“I’m not a good man,” he begins.

You don’t interrupt him. Instead, you exhale a cloud of lustrous smoke, closing your eyes briefly, as the familiar scent engulfs you.

“I’m not a good man,” he repeats, “but I am a fucking honest one.”

He leans forward, his frozen blue eyes capturing yours. Paradoxically, a familiar warmth overcomes you, your chest set aflame all over again.

“I need you. I fucking need you. The only fucking reason I pushed you away was that -,“ he inhales deeply, momentarily bowing his head, unable to look at you.

“I can’t lose you. I cannot lose you like I lost Grace. The fucking portrait- It- you saw me as a good man, and I couldn’t- I’m _not_. Everything I touch fucking dies or fucking murders. But with you-,” he trails off.

You tilt forward, eyes burrowing into him.

“You know, Tommy. I loved you. I _let_ myself fall in love with you. I let myself love a man who wasn't able to love me back,” you whisper.

He doesn't reply immediately. You watch him struggle to find his words, his hands clenching into tight fists. His scent lingers in the air, whiskey and smoke. Why does he do this to you? Your heart coils painfully as you watch him. Just one more glance, you think, to still your yearning for something he cannot give you. _Affection_. 

“I’m falling in love with you,” he murmurs, finally catching your gaze.

You shake your head, surprised tears stinging your eyes.

“Don’t say that,” you plead softly, breaking away from the storm raging in his eyes.

He gets up from his chair and moves towards you. You don’t offer any retaliation. You can’t, because you need him. You need to feel him again. His arms encircle you, and you lean into him. His hand brushes the nape of your neck. Then, with impossible tenderness, he bends down and brushes your hair behind your ear.

“I’m letting myself fall in love with you,” he breaths, his words hot against your skin.

“I leave for Scotland in the morning,” you say, as he heads towards the door.

He stops in his tracks and turns back to face you.

“Right.”

“I just thought you should know,” you add, getting up from your chair to follow him to the door.

“Yes, that’s very thoughtful,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on you.

He’s calculating, you can see the gears turning behind his eyes. Your hand moves up to cup the back of his neck.

“Come with me,” you breathe, brushing your lips against his.

He leans into you, and kisses you softly, his caress like the sunrise, a promise of more to come.

“Alright,” he replies finally, grazing his lips against your forehead.

You freeze, you weren’t actually expecting him to accept your request.

“Really?” you ask disbelievingly, searching his eyes for any hint of dishonesty.

“Really,” he repeats, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip.

“How?” you ask breathlessly, eyes shining for what seems like the first time since you parted ways.

“Polly will take over for a while, and we’ll take Charlie with us. Time, he learnt something about his roots,” he says, ducking down so that his eyes are level with yours, “anyway, I have business in Scotland. Something I have to do.”

You smile and realise that the gesture has become unfamiliar. He straightens and you realise he’s about to leave you again. Your trembling hands reach into the pocket of your dress. Your fingers snag something small and rectangular. And so, you hand him the matches you took that night, the night in which you burnt the portrait.

“To new beginnings,” you say softly.

He nods, smiling back at you.

“To new beginnings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like how this chapter turned out. I hope you liked it too! As always, please leave your feedback in the comments. (It really does help keep me motivated)  
> Hope y'all are well and staying safe!   
> Xxx


	9. Spilt Tea

You spend the first day in something resembling silence. The only sound you hear is the repetitive thumping of the horse’s hooves crushing the soft grass beneath and Charlie cooing beside you. Yet, even though neither of you speaks, you feel as though something is being said. You hear it in the way his arms flex when he spurs on the magnificent creature. (You’ve named her “Io”. _Io,_ like the moon. He told you that she was born under the full moon, so it only seemed fitting.) You hear it in the way he turns to you every so often, gazing at you like something to be consumed or _devoured_. The way his inky eyelashes stroke his sharp cheekbones when he blinks, only to flick back up and reveal his splendid blue eyes. You hear it, yet you don’t know what is being said.

Dusk begins to settle, like a murky blanket, around you and you decide to set up camp for the night. The caravan is big enough to house all three of you, yet in an unspoken agreement, you know you will be sharing his bed tonight. When the fire is lit and the tea is brewed, you sit down at the edge of the vardo side by side, Charlie fast asleep in his lap and with gentleness, not even you have had the honour of experiencing, he brushes over his son’s soft hair, and murmurs sweet words of nothingness into his ear. You watch him intently, but he doesn’t cower under your scrutinizing gaze. He glances up at you and smiles then returns to singing a lullaby in Romani. His voice is soft yet gravelly, tuneless yet somehow hauntingly melodic. As darkness only seen in the quietest hours of night settles over you, he decides to put Charlie to bed. When he returns you are settled in the small open alcove the wagon provides, your back against the wooden structure, a mug of hot tea warming your face. He sits opposite you and lights a cigarette, eyes on you. _Always_ on you. He clears his throat and leans forward slightly.

“What happened to the portrait?”

You swallow and think, unsure of how to answer. But you realise that you feel no shame, no regret.

“I burnt it,” you reply honestly, mirroring his movements and leaning forward.

He nods, then clicks his tongue, bringing the cigarette to his lips once more.

“Bloody thought so,” he murmurs, throwing you a conspiring smirk.

You shrug and find it incredibly easy to smile back.

“It wasn’t yours and you’re right, it wasn’t you.”

“You saw it too. Good, because then I have a business proposal for you,” he begins, offering you a cigarette.

You decline with a tilt of your head and gesture for him to continue. He merely shrugs and puts the cigarette back into the rectangular packet, then he pulls out the matchbox you gave him and shows it to you.

“You see I was wondering why you gave this to me. And then I realised you must have bloody burnt it,” he muses, staring at the little, red box.

“What’s your offer?” you exclaim, snatching the matchbox from his fingers.

“Paint another,” he begins with a small smile playing on his lips, but you interrupt him with a short burst of laughter.

“Dear God, Tommy! Have you already forgotten how that worked out last time?” you reply, but you’re oddly intrigued by his offer.

“Paint another with me and _Io_. With me and the bloody horse. Paint the real _me_ with my horse because that’s what I want to see. That’s what I want Charlie to see when he walks through the halls of Arrow House.” He says intently, taking the mug from your hands.

You let him catch hold of your hands, warming them with his heat, his flame. You're confused, confused by his sudden confession. His sudden want to be painted. To see himself. But maybe that’s exactly it, he wants to see the real Thomas Shelby, so that he doesn’t forget. Doesn’t forget himself, doesn’t twist into something else. Something even he can’t recognize.

“You with the horse?”

“Yes. Me and Io. Paint me now. During this fucking trip. I want to be with you, I want to see you paint. I want to see _you_ ,” he confesses.

You don’t reply. You can’t speak. So, instead, you embrace him spilling the mug of tea. His arms encircle your waist and he pulls you onto his lap so that your legs are straddling him on either side. His lips are hot against yours and you melt into him. He can have you. You want him to have you. To taste you, to touch you. You want him. You want him _too_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's short but I enjoyed writing this chapter so much! I hope you enjoyed reading it.  
> Leave your feedback in the comments, I really do appreciate your view.  
> Kudos and comments make my day :)  
> Hope y'all are well and staying safe!  
> Xxx


	10. The Lovers

You wake up to his lips caressing your shoulder, his head burrowed in the crook of your neck. You’re sore, sore from a night of lovemaking, a night of truth-telling. Words that were spoken with your bodies, not your voice. Confessions of love made in the early hours of the day, when his perfect face was shrouded in darkness, darkness only your touch could overcome.

He murmurs something, a deep vibration that touches your very core. You smile gently and run your hand through his hair. He cranes his neck to look up at you, his eyes still heavy with sleep, his lips parted as he takes in your unruly curls and naked torso.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he breathes, drinking in your creamy skin.

“As are you, Mr Shelby,” you reply, leaning forward so that your lips brush his ear.

He shakes his head, his hand skimming over the smooth skin of your stomach. His hand is warm and feels right. It feels _right_. You lean into his touch and let your head rest on his shoulder.

“Shut up. You’re beautiful,” he whispers, more to himself than to you.

You kiss his cheek, eyes closed, and breath in his scent. Then you disentangle yourself from his limbs and climb from the bed. His hand holds on to your wrist, unwilling to let you go, to break the spell you’ve cast on each other.

“Breakfast?” you ask, a smile playing at the corners of your lips.

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he grudgingly lets go of your arm and contents himself with watching your nude form search the vardo for something edible. You feel oddly relaxed, at ease, being so intimate with him. It would feel unnatural to hide your body, to cover it up. After all, he’s seen it. He has seen _you_.

* * *

“We’re going to reach Berwick-upon-Tweed soon,” Tommy says, as you trot past an old rickety, wooden sign.

The sun has reached its peak and is beginning its descent. The air is cool and dry, the sky a quilt of muted colours. Dramatic clouds billow behind the mountain peaks, only letting the most radiant sun rays break through their barrier. This is it. This is where you want him.

“Stop,” you say abruptly, putting your hand on his arm, as you continue to gaze upwards.

He doesn’t question you, instead, he tuts quietly, bringing Io to a halt. Then, reigns firmly in hand, he turns to face you questioningly. A wide smile cracks your lips, and your eyes gleam in excitement, as you gaze back at him.

“This is where I’m going to start painting you,” you explain, hopping down from the wagon.

“Alright,” he replies, cigarette dangling between his lips.

He remains seated and watches intently as you scan the area for a fitting backdrop.

“Come here,” you say, climbing onto a rock, the wind blowing your fiery hair out behind you.

Eyes on you, he steps from the caravan and moves towards you, flicking his cig to the ground. He reaches you and gently pulls you down from your pillar. His hands tangle in your hair as he pulls your face towards him. You can feel the heat radiating from him and once again you’re drowning in the endless azure of his eyes.

“What are you doing to me, eh?” he asks softly, leaving no time for you to reply before he moulds his lips against yours.

The kiss is bruising, heated. You can taste faint smoke on him, the smoke of his bloody cigarettes. But he is so much better than any drug you’ve ever consumed. He is your opium, your fucking heroine.

And when you finally come up for air, you realise that you never want to sober up, because his withdrawal could be fatal.

“Why did you come back?” he asks, after a long period of silence.

You look up from the canvas and tuck your pencil behind your ear. The sketch is finished, and the sun has started to set, so you’ll probably pack up for the day. Shrugging, you begin to sort your materials.

“A fresh start, I guess. A second chance, to make things right,” you reply, smiling slightly.

“Didn’t work out the first time?” he asks, readjusting his cap and his coat as he realises your session is over.

You laugh dryly, then shake your head, the smile slipping from your lips.

“I made many mistakes and they hurt a lot of people,” you say quietly.

He nods, and you realise that he knows exactly how that feels. You can almost see her name behind his eyelids. _Grace_.

“Maybe you need to give yourself a second chance, too,” you suggest, stepping towards him.

He shakes his head, his gaze drifting to the earth beneath his feet. You don’t relent and once again you stand before him, hands touching his face, imperceptibly lined with the weight of his past. The haunted look you have seen in many a soldier’s face is still prevalent in his eyes. Holding on to the past, unable to let go. Unable to forget. You bring your lips to his forehead. The wind thrashes you with its cold, unrelenting whip, but the two of you remain oblivious to the storm brewing behind the mountains.

“Maybe I can be your second chance,” you whisper.

“And why would you do that to yourself, eh?” he asks jokingly, but his voice is rough with emotion.

“Because you were one of the few people willing to give me one,” you murmur, resting your brow against his.

“You did no wrong.”

“I did, Tommy. I have,” you reply, voice breaking slightly.

His arms tighten around you, breathing sharply as he looks into your eyes. For once, you feel the urge to hide. To hide from his watchful gaze. He can’t see you, because if he does he won’t understand. He’ll leave, and that would break you. He brings his hands to cup your face, thumbs brushing the tears, you hadn’t realised were falling, from your cheeks. You lean into his touch, eyes closing as you breath him in.

“When I’m finished here,” he says, “I’ll know if I deserve a second chance. If I do, I’ll spend it on you. I’ll do it right this time,” he says intently.

“And why would you do that to yourself?” you mimic half-heartedly, heart pounding furiously.

He pulls away from you, eyes still watching you attentively. Then he sighs and looks away, bringing a fresh cigarette to his parted lips. He lights it with a match, flicking the used stub over his shoulder. All his movements seem purposeful, confident, incompatible with the vulnerability you just glimpsed in his eyes. He inhales and exhales three times, before facing you again.

“Because I need you. I need you to stay because I can’t lose you.”

That makes two of us, you agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't quite know where I'm going to take this yet, but I really enjoyed writing this chapter. I hope you enjoyed reading it as well. Please leave some feedback in the comments.  
> Kudos and comments make my day!  
> Hope y'all are well and staying safe.  
> Xxx  
> (Btw, thank you so much for all of the lovely comments you guys left on the previous chapters. It really does mean the world to me!)


	11. The Village

„Tommy?“

„Yeah?“

„Where are we?” you ask, trying hard not to sound doubtful.

He sighs heavily, gently pulling Io to a stop. Then he turns to face you bringing a cigarette to his lips.

“Want me to be honest?” he says, his gaze wandering to the majestic mountains embracing you from either side.

You nod cautiously, accepting a cigarette from him.

“No fucking clue,” he murmurs, lighting both of your rollups with a single match.

You snort, letting your head fall to his shoulder. He wraps his arm around your waist pulling you even closer towards him.

“But I know that she’s somewhere around here,” he breaths into your ear.

His specific scent mixed with that of smoke fills your lungs.

“She?” you ask, closing your eyes, eyebrows barely raised.

He takes in your relaxed appearance and chuckles quietly. Then the movement subsides, and his gaze becomes solemn once more. His touch tightens slightly, unconsciously.

“The woman who will decide if I get a second chance,” he sighs.

You set up camp near a small village further on up the road. Charlie sleeps in your arms as you recline in the soft grass. The last caresses of the sun warm your rosy cheeks, and a smile so natural and carefree embraces your soft lips, it feels almost unnatural. Charlie moves restlessly in your arms, awakening you from your shallow snooze.

“What is it, darling?” you murmur softly, looking down into his sleepy eyes.

His hand grips your hair tightly, playing with your flaming red locks. He tugs gently as if to test their strength. A smile cracks your lips, as you wait for him to speak what’s on his mind.

“Ma?” he coos quietly, looking at you earnestly.

You freeze, a sharp breath tearing through your lungs. Ma, as in mother? Is he asking for Grace?

“Ma,” he repeats, more to himself than to you, small dimples adorning his cheeks, then he leans into your chest, closing his eyes.

Fast asleep once more. You look down at him, at Tommy’s son. Tommy and Grace’s son. And there it is again, that feeling. Something protective, maternal even. You can’t bring yourself to feel guilty, to feel guilty for being there when Grace cannot. ‘Ma’, the word tastes like honey on your tongue. You let yourself become accustomed to the taste. Your lips are smiling, but your eyes betray a deeper feeling. Tears run freely down your cheeks, but not in that draining way, not because you feel the need to rid your body of toxins. No, it’s sunnier than that, lighter.

“Ma,” you whisper, carefully wiping the tears from your cheek.

That night, when you and Tommy are lying together in your narrow, wooden bed, he turns to you, his hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling your face towards his. It doesn’t take much for you to close the distance. You kiss him softly, your eyes already heavy with sleep. It’s dark outside and the cool night air makes you huddle tighter under your blanket. He pulls away, a toothy smile adorning his lips.

“What is it?” you ask sleepily, leaning into his warm chest.

His arms encircle you, his chin grazing the top of your hair.

“I talked to Arthur today,” he says quietly, his voice sounding distant.

You look up at him, at his detached expression. So, that’s where he was when he wandered into the village, letting you and Charlie nap in the soft grass. Your hand reaches up to brush his cheek. In vain you try to stoke the light behind his eyes.

“How did he sound?”

Tommy laughs humourlessly, turning his head to gaze outside of the vardo. Hiding.

“Happy. He sounded fucking happy,” he replies bleakly.

You don’t reply, for you don’t know what he needs to hear. You don’t grasp the weight of his words.

“It’s the first time I heard his voice like that. That fucking _weightless_. The first time since France,” he murmurs.

His jaw is clenched and the muscles in his torso seem tense. You let your hand run over his chest, stopping when you have his heartbeat under your palm. His heart in your hand, trying to keep it from breaking. His eyes shine, wet with unshed tears.

“They fucking need me,” he says, his voice cracking, then pulls away from you.

He disentangles himself from the sheets and moves towards the entrance of the vardo, his silhouette illuminated by the waxing crescent.

“They fucking need me. They need me to run the Shelby business, they need me to make the decisions that no one else wants to fucking make-,” he inhales deeply, his hands running through his hair.

Then he turns to you and looks at you with a chilling resentment, shaking his head as he brings a cigarette to his lips.

“I’ve given them some fucking space and now Arthur’s suddenly cured. Suddenly, his fucking brain seems to actually _fucking_ work,” he snarls, pulling like a dying man at the slim roll-up between his fingers.

Translucent smoke fills the air, clouding his expression, hiding him once more.

“They need me more than I need them,” he says faintly.

But even you know that’s a lie.

“Come back to bed,” you say simply, unable to bear the anguish in his eyes, "come back to _me_."

And he does. He climbs into the sheets beside you, letting you nestle back into his side. But he doesn’t sleep that night, you can see it in the dark crescents beneath his eyes the next morning. He needs them, more than he’s willing to admit. He needs his clan. Without them, all the violence, the lies and the deceit have no purpose. He does it for them. He does it for _them_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave some feedback in the comments.  
> I hope you enjoyed this short chapter.  
> Hope you're all well and staying safe!  
> Xx


	12. The Sapphire

“Eh, wake up.”

His shoulder nudges against yours, pulling you from your restless dreams. You open your eyes, then close them again.

“Wake up, we’re there,” he repeats.

You shake your head, grumbling softly. The sun is too bright, the air is too humid. Sleep is pulling you under like an unrelenting partner, unwilling to let you go. You hear him laugh quietly, and suddenly there is no ground beneath you. His arms are warm against your bare skin, his chest like a silken shield, protecting you from the morning’s merciless salutations. He gently lowers your feet to the ground. You let your nude body lean into him, and you realise that he is already fully dressed.

“When did we arrive?” you ask blearily, eyes still closed, trusting his strong embrace.

“We rode through the night, I let you and Charlie sleep,” he replies in that deep rumble of his, gently lifting your arms so that you can slip into one of his shirts.

The material feels comforting against your creamy skin, and his calloused fingers brush subtly against your torso as he buttons it.

“You and Charlie wait here, eh?” he murmurs, bringing his lips to your forehead.

You nod sleepily, hands gripping the soft material of his coat. Then you remember something, that _something_ you feel obliged to tell him.

“Tommy?” you ask, eyes opening just enough to take in his face, framed by the morning sun.

“Yeah?” he breaths, hands coming to cup your face.

“Charlie called me ‘Ma’ yesterday,” you say softly, looking up to gauge his reaction.

His jaw clenches slightly, but he doesn’t break away from your gaze. You stand there in tense silence.

“Alright,” he replies finally, averting his gaze, removing himself from your embrace.

The cool morning air ripples against your body as he turns away from you. Then, just before he’s about to leave the wagon, he turns to you and says: “but you’re not his mum. Grace is.”

It takes a second for your lips to form words. His words have cut deep, opened a wound you didn't know you have.

“Grace is dead,” you say, too defensive, too hostile, eyes glaring into the back of his coat.

You’ve played a hand you’re not sure he realised you had. He faces you, lip curled ever so slightly.

“You think I don’t fucking know that?” he hisses.

You step towards him, hands reaching out to touch him. 

“Listen to me,” you implore him, glad he doesn’t rebuke your touch.

He glares at you, his shoulders taut under your fingers.

“I’m not Grace. I know I’m not his mother. But, Charlie doesn’t understand the intricacy of-“ you falter.

“The intricacy of this fucking relationship?” he asks, his voice harsh.

“He has no principles when it comes to loving, Tommy. He has no principles when it comes to family!” you exclaim.

“But I do,” he replies.

His words cut through you. You falter, releasing his shoulders. He doesn’t say anymore, neither do you. What else is there to say when truth, unfiltered truth, is uncovered?

_“I can’t love you, I can’t call you family, because I have principles. That is what you see in my eyes when you touch me, when I let myself touch you. Guilt.”_

He leaves. He leaves and you let him. Because you know he'll come back, just like he knows you'll stay You're in too deep to turn away now.

_**Tommy's POV** _

“Thank you for your time, Madame Boswell,” he says, gaze cold and collected.  
  
“I heard someone shot your wife,” she replies, “if you're looking for soldiers, our men are all up at Appleby.”  
  
“I have no need for soldiers,” he answers quietly, “it's not why I came here.”

He steps forward, handing her the obnoxiously large pendant.  
  
“What do you think?”  
  
“You're selling?” she asks, voice tinged with surprise.  
  
“Giving.”  
  
“Why?” she shoots back, suspicion lacing her tone.

“Would you take it?” he inquires, gaze digging into her.

“I'd take it,” she replies immediately, too soon.  
  
“Would you wear it?” he presses, desperation creeping into his gravelly voice.

She doesn’t notice his despair, her eyes are too focused on the flashing gem, dangling from her long, gnarled fingers.  
  
“Why would I not?”

“That's my question,” he responds, “my wife was wearing it the night she was shot, and I lie awake at night at 4:00 in the fucking morning, and I blame myself for her death.”  
  
“You want me to tell you this jewel is cursed, and then her death won't be all your fault,” Madame Boswell deducts, eyes finally focusing on the worn-down man before her.  
  
“If I believed in the priests, I would confess and ask for forgiveness, but all I have is you, Madame Boswell.”

She waits for him to elaborate.  
  
“I have a son. I have a business. I need to get some sleep,” he says simply.  
  
“It is cursed. I feel its curse burning through my heart,” she declares finally, clutching the diamond close to her chest.  
  
He nods curtly, then turns on his heel and leaves.

“Keep it or chuck it in the fucking river. As long as I’m rid of it,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Bless you, Tommy Shelby! You’ll have a good fortune from now on!” she exclaims, watching his shadow recede.

He finds her lying on their bed, Charlie playing on the floor beside her. His return doesn’t awaken her. Dark circles frame her eyes. She’s exhausted, he noticed it this morning when she was in his arms. A feeling of warmth blossoms in his chest, elicited by the flame of her hair and her sweet, familiar features. He has many words he needs to say to her, many things he needs to explain. Suddenly everything is so much clearer, everything has come into perspective. For once he understands. She murmurs something and rolls onto her side, eyes still tightly shut. His words will have to wait. He picks Charlie up, and heads to the front of the wagon, as not to wake her. He sets Charlie down beside him and looks deep into his son’s eyes. He sees some semblance of Grace reflected in his child's face, but for once that realisation doesn’t tear a hole into his chest.

“Are you listening to me, Charlie?” he asks softly.

Charlie doesn’t break away from his father’s gaze, showing Tommy that he is indeed listening, that he understands so much more than anyone gives him credit for.

“I’m not much good and she’s not coming back, so it’s just you, me and-“

“Ma!” Charlie exclaims.

Tommy can’t help but smile. He nods, lifting his son high into the air so that Charlie’s gazing down at him. Charlie grins back, oblivious to the tears in his father’s eyes.

“Yeah. Just the three of us, eh?” he replies.

He brings Charlie back down to his chest, resting his chin on the top of his fluffy tufts of hair. Charlie gurgles happily, pulling at Tommy’s cap. Tommy brings a cigarette to his lips, smiling fondly at his son.

“We’ll be okay. This is my second fucking chance. I'm not going to mess it up. Not this time.” Tommy concludes, and for once he genuinely believes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK. Finally. So, the dialogue in Tommy's POV is basically the exact conversation he has with Madame Boswell in series 3, episode 3. I really like that scene and I think it makes sense to integrate it into this story. I hope you think so too, and enjoyed reading this chapter. Tommy finally has some closure concerning Grace's death and I think the relationship between our protagonist and him will be able to progress from here. I really enjoyed writing this chapter. Please leave a comment and tell me what you think, I can't stress enough how much it helps me.  
> Kudos and comments make my day.  
> Hope y'all are well and staying safe!  
> Xxx


	13. Chapter 13

It's dusk by the time you wake up. You’re still wearing his shirt, warmed by your body heat. The air is surprisingly warm, unusually summery for the highlands. The calm before the storm. You pad towards the entrance of the vardo, passing Charlie, who is sleeping in his wooden cot. You can’t help the smile that embraces your lips as you look down at him.

“Sleep well?” Tommy asks.

His voice is hoarse, and his face shrouded by the cap he wears. He’s sitting on the edge of the wagon, gently steering Io along the rambling, narrow path. Instinctively you sit down beside him. Even after everything that’s passed, you cannot resist his warmth. You let your head lean against his clothed shoulder, the soft material rubbing against your cheek. It smells of smoke and of your vanilla scent. It smells of _you_ , together.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, gazing straight ahead.

“The business is done?” you ask quietly.

“The business is done,” he replies.

Then, gently pulling Io to a halt, he turns to you. The moonlight highlights the shadows on his face, and it makes him look so vulnerable. You have the urge to kiss him, to kiss those shadows away, but you don’t. Your hands remain by your side, your eyes fixed on his face.

“And I get a second chance. I get a second _fucking_ chance, Y/N,” he continues, his eyes burrowing into yours, leaving no place to hide.

You don’t reply. He needs to explain himself.

“And if you’re still willing, I’d like to spend it on you,” he says.

“I’m not some whore you can pay with your second fucking chances,” you whisper, voice throaty with hurt and exhaustion.

“No, you aren’t,” he agrees after a while, eyes never leaving yours.

Then exhaling slowly, he shakes his head, a gesture of humility, of shame. For once he's speechless. 

“I’m the whore. I’ve sold every part of myself. Each to the highest bidder. And now I have nothing left, nothing I can offer you but that what you see,” he says finally, “but please know, just fucking _know_ , that this is my truest self. Not yet twisted, not yet corrupted.”

You relent, and let your fingers touch his face. Your thumb brushes over his parted lips. They’re chapped, probably due to the cold and the many kisses you’ve shared. Your love reflected in his face.

“Are you willing to spend your second chance on me?” he asks, and his words hit your very core.

Your tears are mirrored in his eyes. In those endless, stormy irises. Irresistible. No, not irresistible. That's not what you see in his eyes. In his eyes you see hope, you see _light_. A light only he managed to rekindle, the light you had thought extinguished, blown out by the hauntings of your past. He welcomed you, just as you've welcomed him.

“Yes, Tommy. Fucking _yes_ ,” you breathe, finally leaning in to kiss him. To kiss those bruised lips and heal them with the love you’ve only ever shared with him.

Later that night, when the sweat of your heated coupling has started to cool down, drying into your skin, a temporary tattoo of the fire he flames in your chest, you turn to him. Words wait at the back of your tongue, ready to be revealed, to be shared. Tommy’s head rests on your stomach, his hands tracing abstract patterns into your arms His eyes are closed and you can tell that he is only a breath away from a sweet, dreamless sleep.

“My authentic self. That’s what I’ve given you," you begin, letting your hand run through his dark hair, "but one day you’ll find out what I had to sell to get there."

You exhale your confession into the night air.

He doesn’t seem to have heard you and, oddly satisfied, you close your eyes. Even if his ears didn’t hear your confession, he will have heard it in the rise and fall of your chest, or the soft movement of your eyelashes concealing your eye. He will have heard your words. In fact, he heard those words the very first time he stepped through your doorway, paraphrased by the look in your eyes. That dark, shrouded stranger, he’s known all along. Because you knew it too, the very first time you saw him. Two bruised people, willing to accept the other because only then would life be bearable. Love is something you’re unable to do alone. Love is something you've decided to do with _him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! I'm nervous but in a good way.   
> So, this is the big talk. I really hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. As always, your feedback means the world to me, so if you can spare the time maybe tell me what you think in the comments.  
> Kudos and comments make my day :)  
> Hope y'all are well and staying safe!  
> Xxx


	14. Her Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, the backstory of our protagonist will be revealed.  
> Hope y'all enjoy!

_“The jawline isn’t quite right. His chin is softer, less harsh,” she corrects softly._

_You look up at your mother, at the gentle smile she gives you, at the mass of her copper curls. Like an angel, illuminated by the sunlight streaming in through the opening of the vardo._

_“You’re right,” you murmur, returning your focus back to your canvas, correcting the harshness of your late father’s chin._

_“He’d have been proud,” Ma adds, touching your shoulder gently, before leaving the wagon._

_In these moments you forget why you want to leave. In these moments you’re able to let yourself sink into the utter tranquillity of the afternoon sun._

* * *

_The black cloth of your dress does little to keep out cold, winter’s air. It creeps through the material and wraps around your limbs until they turn numb. You watch bleakly as the flames swallow the vardo. Death comes to us all, but this time it was too early. You weren’t ready. How could you be? She was the only thing keeping you here. The only one who understood._

* * *

_“You don’t have to leave,” he says._

_“But I want to, Johnny. There’s nothing left here, not for me,” you reply, folding your final dress._

_It’s the cream-coloured, cotton dress she gave you. It’s the only thing you have left of her. On top of the folded dress, you place your father’s sketches, tied neatly with a simple red ribbon. It doesn’t hurt as much as it once did to hold their belongings. They’re yours to treasure now, yours to safe keep. The last part of them, not yet extinguished by the ravages of time._

* * *

_“A painter, eh?”_

_“An aspiring one,” you reply, blushing slightly, leaning further into the uncomfortable upholstery of your seat._

_This stranger is friendly enough, making conversation in a situation that could otherwise have turned awkward. After all, you are pressed unnaturally close together in the cramped train carriage. His eyes are warm and inviting, yet still, he exudes an air of danger, of untrustworthiness._

_“Where will you be staying?” he asks curiously, eyes fixed on you._

_“I don’t- don’t know yet,” you reply honestly, flustered by his curiosity._

_“Well, if you need accommodation, I have a house you could stay in. Lots of other ladies to keep you company. And lots of handsomely endowed men. Financially anyway.”_

_You flush indignantly and glare at him._

_“Thanks for the kind offer, sir. But I decline,” you hiss, clutching your belongings tighter to you as you evacuate your seat._

_He shrugs, smirking smugly. His long, pale fingers flick a card into your open case._

_“I run a fair business. You’ll come running along soon enough,” he says, then turns his gaze towards the window, watching the slowing landscape._

_The clear voice of a conductor declares the next stop. Your stop._

_Paris._

* * *

_Your hands shake as you rush through the dark streets. It must be around here somewhere, the house described on that fucking card. Tears prick your eyes, and your jaw is clenched painfully tight. This is the only way. The only way you can afford to keep visiting your classes, the only way you can keep a roof over your head. Through the grapevine, you have heard that they do run a fair business. Fair enough, anyway. You reach the brick building and notice that it is in surprisingly good shape for the neighbourhood. Stopping in front of the unassuming door, you adjust your coat and grip your case tighter._

_We’re all whores, we just sell different parts of ourselves._

_You take a deep breath, then knock._

* * *

_“You have to be more careful, love,” you say softly, dabbing delicately at the angry red cut slicing her arm._

_Elsie sobs softly and shakes her head._

_“I thought he wouldn’t notice. It was just his fucking cufflinks,” she replies._

_You sigh deeply, drenching the cloth once more in the basin of salted water._

_“I’ve stolen many things worth more than fucking cufflinks, Elsie. It isn’t about what you steal. It’s about when you steal it,” you chide gently._

_“Well forgive me if I haven’t had that much bloody practice,” she retaliates, pouting slightly._

_You shake your head, finally bandaging the wound._

_“You’ll learn soon enough.”_

* * *

_"Today's class was really good," he exclaims as you leave the atelier._

_You smile up at him, taking in his unassuming, friendly expression. He doesn't know what it costs for you to be here, and for that you're grateful._

_"Yes. Yes, it was," you reply softly, letting him slip his arm through yours, connecting you in such an innocent way._

_"Time for a nightcap?" he asks hopefully as you step out onto the streets of Paris._

_Your heart begins to sink. You can't, you have to be back for your night shift._

_"I'd love to, but-" you begin._

_"You can't," he concludes, his face falling._

_You nod, disappointment weighing you down._

_"Tomorrow night?" he adds, stopping so that he can face you properly._

_Your heart breaks at the crestfallen expression on his face._

_"Listen, Erik, I need to tell you something."_

_He shakes his head, smiling gently._

_"It's alright, I know. I've known for a long time," he says, "but I don't care, Y/N. It doesn't change anything."_

_You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes._

_"But it does, Erik. It fucking does. I can't- I can't be with you."_

_"But you can! You can stop working and I'll-"_

_"I can't just stop! I need this. I need the fucking money. I thought you said you understood," you retaliate, sharper than you intended._

_"Let me help you," he pleads._

_You shake your head, your pride unwilling to let him in._

_"I don't need your help," you snap._

_And with that you leave him standing there, your heart bruised. At least this bruise won't be visible, but it won't fade away like the others littering your torso._

* * *

_You step through the thick undergrowth and take in the scene before you. Garlands decorate the ring of vardos and a dancing fire illuminates the night. You recognise the faces around you and they seem to recognise you as you fall into each other’s arms._

_“You came!” a familiar voice yells._

_“Of course I did, Johnny. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”_

_“Don’t lie to me. You missed Ciaran’s wedding and the one before that,” he says lightly, pressing a bottle into your hand and guiding you towards the fire._

_“True.”_

_“So, why did you really come back?” he presses._

_“I had nothing to lose in Paris. I’ve nothing left to give the place.”_

_“And thus, you've returned,” he concludes._

_“Indeed,” you say softly, bringing the bottle to your lips, swallowing a mouthful of the numbing liquor._

_“And do you have anything left to give yourself?” he asks, taking a longer look at you, at your waifish form, and tired eyes._

_You laugh humourlessly, shaking your head._

_“I sold it all in Paris,” you reply, then shake your head, a small smile playing at your lips as you pull a box from your bag, “everything except my fucking paints.”_

_Johnny pulls you down onto the bench beside him and stares into the flames of the roaring fire._

_“Do you believe in second chances?”_

_You don’t reply. You honestly don’t know._

_“Even if I did, I don’t think I’d deserve one,” you whisper, trying to block out the onslaught of images filling your mind. The many selfish, immoral things you did to bring yourself further in life. And to what end? To come crawling back to Birmingham, only half of the woman you were before you left?_

_“You’ve come back here. You’ve reset the fucking clock, and now you can start again. A fresh slate here in fucking Birmingham.”_

_“And what do you propose I do here in Birmingham, Johnny? Forgive me, but I can’t return to the life I left behind when I moved away. That would break me, Johnny. I can’t stay here,” you reply evenly, taking yet another swig of liquor._

_“You say you paint? Fuck that, I know you do,” he says, “so, fucking paint. Start again as a painter here in this hellhole of a city. You have to start somewhere, chai.”_

_You scoff, refusing to let the idea sink in. But the alcohol loosens your resolve and you entertain Johnny’s words._

_“And who would pay me to paint? Believe me I’ve tried to live off of mere artistic talent and it didn’t fucking work,” you exclaim, subconsciously, eagerly awaiting his rebuttal._

_“You have that bloody talent of yours and I have relations. In fact, I think I have your first commission.”_

_You sigh, looking at your older cousin, and finally you let yourself smile._

_“You’re a wizard, Johnny.”_

_“Everyone deserves a second fucking chance. It’s impossible to get any of this shit right the first fucking time, eh?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, here it is! I'm so nervous, but this was so much fun to write. I hope you enjoyed reading it. Please tell me what you think in the comments.  
> Kudos and comments make my day! ;)  
> Hope y'all are well and staying safe!  
> Xx


	15. Whore

You eye the final stroke of your brush and a small, prideful smile lights up your face. The summer wind whirls your skirt around your thighs in a soothing dance.

Tommy gives you a lazy grin and begins to move towards you, Io trotting behind him, but you gesture for him to stay where he is.

“I didn’t say you can look. It’s a surprise for tonight,” you say coyly.

“A surprise, eh?” he asks, raising one of his sinfully beautiful eyebrows.

“You’ll see,” you shoot back, closing the distance between you so that you can give him a quick, chaste kiss.

He tries to pull you into his arms, but you pull back, grinning cheekily.

“Save it for tonight,” you breathe, hoping that he can’t hear the anxious melody your heart beats against your sternum.

Your appearance in the ramshackle mirror surprises you. The cream-coloured dress compliments your body perfectly, the delicate cloth seemingly flowing over the soft curves of your body. The ache in your chest is a welcome feeling as your mind conjures images of her wearing it in the stifling summer heat. You can almost feel the taste of strawberries on your tongue, her arms whirling you into a wild and carefree dance. You brush away your tears and give your reflection an encouraging smile. Tonight, you’ll tell him everything, when the sun rises again in the morning a decision will have been made. You trust him to make the right one.

The sun has set, and Charlie is sleeping soundly in his cot, as you pad to the front of the vardo. Tommy sits there languidly, his cap pulled low over his face.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, giving you a wicked smile.

You sit down beside him, letting his arm snake around your shoulder. It’s a night like the many nights before, but this time every touch, every movement feels different.

“We’ll be in Birmingham in about two days’ time,” he adds, removing the cap from his head.

You let your hand brush over his soft, dark hair. He leans into your touch before pulling away, looking at you expectantly. Once again you feel like you’re drowning in those eyes, pulling you closer, closer to the blue flame.

“I believe you have a surprise for me.”

You nod, biting your lip nervously as you jump up. The portrait is leaning against the wall, veiled by a thick, red cloth. He smiles slightly as you bring it forward. Saying nothing, you gently pull the material away from the canvas, revealing your work. He stares at intently, his breath hitching slightly as he eyes himself and Io.

“And?” you ask anxiously, unsure how to interpret his speechlessness.

“It’s- Its fucking perfect,” he breathes.

Then his eyes snap back up to you and you’re floored by the affection you find mirrored in his irises. He rises from the floor, gently leaning the canvas back against the wall before pulling you into his arms. His mouth is urgent against yours, his lips bruising as he tries to convey all that he feels. Finally, he pulls away, breathing heavily as he looks into your eyes.

“It’s perfect. Just like you. Just like _you_ , Y/N.”

You bring your hands to his face, gingerly shaking your head. You need to tell him; you need to tell him before you convince yourself not to. No more secrets.

“I’m not perfect, Tommy. I’m not-,“ you begin, faltering slightly.

You’re reluctant to extinguish the affection in his eyes. He pulls away, an eyebrow raised questioningly. You drop your hands, anxiously fumbling with the pendant around your neck.

“What is it, Y/N? Don’t look so afraid, eh?” he says gently, touching your cheek softly.

You lean into his hand, closing your eyes. Finally, you open them again, and tears begin to run down your cheeks.

“I told you that I got a second chance. But I never told you why I needed one, Tommy. I’ve never told you about the life I led before meeting you,” you begin.

He shakes his head, he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what’s coming.

“Because meeting you, Tommy, is the best thing that could’ve fucking happened to me. But I’m scared to tell you what brought me to you,” you say, “and I don’t know why.”

This time both of his hands come to your face, and he lowers his face slightly so that you’re unable to look away, unable to break away from the intense stare of his eyes.

“I don’t give a fuck, Y/N. I don’t give a fuck about what came before. I got you, I fucking got you and the woman I hold in my arms tonight is everything I could ever have hoped for,” he says, “eh?”

“I was a whore, Tommy! I sold my body. I- I sold myself,” you exclaim.

He shakes his head, clicking his teeth.

“Everyone’s a whore, Y/N, we just sell different parts of ourselves.”

You give a humourless laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. His expression darkens slightly, and his grip becomes tighter.

“If you think that your past as a whore would in any way deter me, then you really don’t know me as well as I thought you did,” he begins darkly.

You open your mouth, to interrupt, to tell him that that is ridiculous, but he only pulls your face closer.

“The things I have done are beyond appalling, inhumane, fucking _evil_ ,” he snarls, “I don’t give a _fuck_ about what you did when you needed money. I know what that’s like, I’ve fucking been there. I've fucking been there too, eh?”

His expression softens and his hand caresses your cheek, as though trying to pacify a restless filly.

“But we’ve made it, Y/N. We’re here together and in order for us to move on, we need to put the fucking past behind us,” he murmurs, brushing away the tears that fall from your eyes,” the only place I’m going with you is the future.”

You bring your lips to his in a bruising kiss, flames licking up your entwined bodies. You can’t get close enough to this man. This fucking man. Finally, he pulls away, brushing his thumb over your swollen lips. You lean into him, letting his lips caress the top of your head.

“Alright then,” you breathe, closing your eyes.

And for the first time in what seems like an eternity, you take a deep breath, a weight lifting from your chest. He murmurs something in Romani, but you don’t catch it over the soothing beating of his heart against your cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! As always please tell me what you think in the comments! It really makes my day and makes me upload more frequently ~(˘▾˘~)   
> Hope you're all holding up well and staying safe!  
> Xxx


	17. Home

Birmingham doesn‘t seem to have noticed your absence. The same jarring smell lingers in the air, the same frowns greet you as you cruise through Watery Lane.  
„Walk on. Walk on,“ Tommy tuts as he hurries Io along.  
You lean into his side, letting his warmth melt into your cheek, your own personal sun.  
„That‘s you,“ he murmurs, slowing down as he nods his head towards the building in which your flat resides.  
And suddenly a feeling overwhelms you, a feeling of disgust. Disgust for the small flat in which you live. The home that doesn‘t provide any room for the man beside you. But not only disgust, a deep sense of fear tugs at your heart. The fear that this is the end of a week filled with unadulterated bliss. Irrational, you reassure yourself, but even Tommy has caught the shift in your mood.  
„What‘s the matter, eh?“ he mutters, pulling Io to a halt at the foot of the ramshackle building.  
You shake your head, a strained smile pulling at your lips.  
„Nothing,“ you insist, beginning your descent from the wagon, but he pulls you back.  
„Oi, none of that,“ he says sharply.  
You sigh, running a hand through your bedraggled hair.  
"I just realised that we're back in fucking Birmingham," your eyes meet his, "our getaway is over."  
You look away, tears stinging your overstimulated eyes. Too much smoke, fire and noise.  
"Home sweet home," you mutter bitterly.  
He doesn't reply immediately and you're glad he doesn't. You're behaving like a petulant child, upset that the holidays are over.  
Finally, he helps you down from the wagon, Charlie hanging onto his side. He leads you to the door of your flat and lets you hand him the key. Turning the rusty tool, he faces you, his glare intense and unwavering. He leaves the key in the lock and brings his warm hand to your cheek, levelling with your gaze.  
"All of this, Y/N, the smoke and the guns, it's all noise. That's all it fucking is," he murmurs.   
He pulls Charlie tighter to his side and simultaneously pulls you closer towards him.   
"Take the noise away, and this is all that remains. You and my son. You remain in that fucking blissful place of silence."  
You can almost imagine the commotion around you fading, leaving only the three of you in each other's arms. Sweet silence, but for the roaring of his loving words in your ear.  
You simply nod and let him open the door to your flat.

He stays that evening, not yet ready to face whatever his work has in store for him. Instead, you spend the long, tranquil hours in your small flat. Charlie sleeps in your bed, whilst you and Tommy sit on the carpet in front of the narrow fireplace. After a long period of soothing silence, he turns to you.  
"Come back to the house with me."  
You rub your eyes and lift your head from his knee.  
"For the night?" you ask thickly.  
"For an unspecified period of time," he replies, his lips quirking upwards.  
You swallow, sitting up properly.  
"What- why?" you ask.  
He pauses, running his thumb over your bottom lip before placing a cigarette between his own lips. As usual, he doesn't light it immediately, instead, he returns his gaze to you.  
"Because I love you and I want you to live with me," he says finally, as though he's merely pointing out the time.  
"With you and Charlie in Arrow House?" you press, unable to keep the surprise out of your voice.  
He sighs heavily, pulling you onto his lap faster than you can blink. Your legs straddle him on either side, pinning him down. His hands come to your face, his cool eyes searing into yours. A small laugh escapes his smiling lips.  
"Yes, with Charlie and me in fucking Arrow House. Because I fucking love you," he repeats.  
Your face splits, mirroring his euphoric grin.  
"One more time," you whisper bringing your face closer to his.  
But, before you can press him further, he brings his lips to yours in a bruising kiss. You're the first who pulls away, one eyebrow raised in anticipation.  
He sighs in mock annoyance, adjusting you in his lap, his hands tightening on your hips.  
"Because, I fucking love you," he growls.  
"One more time," you breathe.

You give your flat one last sweeping glance. The bare, peeling walls and the threadbare rug you threw on the floorboards, to hide the scratches left by the tenants before you. In your hand, you hold a battered suitcase, filled with your small collection of clothes and belongings. You feel no regret at the thought of leaving this dismal place. It could have been nice, you reason, but the thought of this being your home sickened you. It wasn't ever going to be your home. A small smile tugs at your lips. Perhaps you aren't meant to have _one_ home, perhaps home is the people with which you surround yourself. Thomas Shelby feels like that place, a haven, an anchor to keep you from drifting, drifting to that place of solitude, where it's you against the whole, entire fucking world.   
"Coming?" Tommy asks, stepping into the room, Charlie on his shoulders.  
You peer at the two of them and see your smile mirrored on Tommy's face.  
"Yes. I'm ready to leave," you say, readjusting your suitcase as you walk towards him.  
"You can always come back, eh?" he murmurs reassuringly.  
His hand tucks a lock of your flaming red hair behind your ear.  
You lean into his touch, shaking your head.  
"I don't want to come back. I was never happy here."  
You lead the way through the door, but he remains where he is, gazing at you.  
"Are you happy now?" he asks.  
"Yes, Tommy," you murmur.  
He raises an eyebrow, unsure whether or not to believe you. You sigh and walk back towards him. You kiss him softly, trying to convey the extent of joy you hold in your heart. Yet when you pull away he still looks unsure.  
"I was never meant to stay in one place, Tommy, and I don't care where it is I lay my head to sleep at night, as long as I'm with you," you gaze into the storm thundering behind his eyes, "as long as it's with you, I'll be fucking happy."  
"Right," he says, "you'll be happy loving a Peaky fucking Blinder, eh?" he asks, his deep voice reverberating in your very core.  
"The happiest," you reply, "and will you be happy loving a penniless, painting whore?"  
He smiles, flashing his pearly whites.  
"The fucking happiest," he says, before bringing his lips to yours once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter! I personally really enjoyed writing it. Please tell me what you think in the comments! (Your feedback really means a lot.)  
> Kudos and comments make my fucking day! ;)  
> Hope you are well and staying safe!  
> Xxx


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